


Springs Eternal

by LoveActuallyFan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barduil - Freeform, Betaed, Caring Thranduil, Confused Bard, Cover Art, Dark Thranduil, Digital Art, Digital Painting, Elf!Bard, Elvenking, Emyn Arnen, Eventual Smut, Fanart, Fourth Age, Good Parent Bard, Gratuitous Smut, Illustrated, Inspired by Music, Ithilien, M/M, Middle Earth, Mirkwood, Reincarnation, canonish, lonely thranduil, reincarnated as an elf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is well into the fourth age, and a disillusioned Elvenking is being kept in Middle Earth for some reason unknown to him. He wants to leave the accursed land and sail west, but something is holding him back; some undeniable, unfathomable pull to stay.</p><p>Linnor, better known to the men of Emyn Arnen as Bard, is a young dark-haired, hazel-eyed elf who is an oddity among the elves left in Ithilien. He wears an odd, full collared robe and his unruly hair is never quite as neat as it should be.</p><p>Taking his young ward with him, Bard travels north to the fabled forest of Greenwood, now Mirkwood, where his parents once dwelt under the rule of the great Elvenking. While visiting his ancestral home, Bard discovers that his and the reclusive Elvenking’s destinies are entwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Springs Eternal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ofplanet_earth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/gifts).



> ***shuffles in nervously***
> 
> Hi! :) I'm quite nervous to post this here, as it is my first piece of Barduil fan fiction. There are so many great pieces on here that it's a little intimidating O.O
> 
> Anyway, the general premise of this is that Bard has been reincarnated as an elf in the fourth age. It is set about 1000 years into the age. The feel of this was heavily influenced by the piece of music [Arrival of the Birds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqoANESQ4cQ) by The Cinematic Orchestra. It is really beautiful, give it a listen of you have the time. 
> 
> The lovely [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth) has agreed to be my beta for this. And I thank her greatly for it. She is the one who originally got me onto this ship, so this is for her <3
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think <3

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/Springs%20Eternal%20Bardie_zpsfwc37emw.jpg.html)

 

It was the dead of winter in Mirkwood. Icicles hung delicate and deadly from the boughs of hibernating trees, their many facets twinkling in the weak woodland light. It was just moments past sunrise, and the morning shadows to lilt oddly in the icy breeze blowing through the forest. No birds were heard that morning, no friendly morning chirps fluttered through the air, only the rhythmic swaying of rustling bare branches and the harsh whip of the frigid air broke the stillness.

Out of the white wilderness a large, majestic snowy elk padded into a frosty clearing, its hoof-prints denting the freshly fallen snow. Its breath curled out in front of its velvety nose as it strode across the glade. The first hints of light bounced off its pure white coat, singling it out as a beautiful, shimmering mirage in the stark woodland. The elk stopped and sniffed at the fingers of a dead branch, its soft nose twitching delicately as it searched for sustenance in the barren wasteland that Mirkwood has transformed into.

The elk moved steadily downwards, its glassy blue eyes searching out in front of it until it reached the ground. The elk stopped, tilting its furry head for a moment before it stepped forwards and pawed at the ground. Its large, frozen hoof moved with a deceiving delicacy, gently scraping back a layer of snow to unveil a small sprout of green. The elk leaned down, bending low to sniff at the first small leaves of winter aconite. It was too early for sprouts such as these; too early by months. But the hardy plant sprung forth still, stubbornly rising out of the cold that surrounded it, its lurid green standing out miraculously against the blanket of white snow that covered the frozen ground.

A breeze whipped through the clearing once more, causing the snowy elk to look up, his steely gaze turning south. The penetrating sunrise hit its face from the side, causing its fur to glow and sparkle. It raised its head, sniffing at the fresh air that blew in from the south. The elk’s eyes widened as the smell of the coming spring permeated its nostrils. It was too early. Too early.

High up in the cavernous halls of the palace of Mirkwood, the ancient Elvenking awoke suddenly, his blue eyes wide. His pale, snowy skin flushed as he sat up in his luxurious bed, his chest heaving and falling in time with the wind that whipped up outside his walls. He blinked a few times, clearing the sleep from his eyes, before he turned his face south, staring out one of the ornate windows that lined his bedchamber. His heavy brow furrowed and his eyes widened, confused by the odd feeling that was invading his mind.

He slid from his bed, his weary body slipping over the sumptuous silken sheets as his bare feet spread onto the carpeted stone floor. The Elvenking grabbed one of the many quilts that surrounded him and wrapped it around his shivering shoulders as he padded over to the south window. Though he did not feel the cold of the air around him, the cold had permeated his fëa for decades—centuries.  He felt the cold in his heart, and it made him shiver.

The fire that had crackled away happily in his fireplace the night before had faded to glowing embers, hardly warming the room at all. The Elvenking stood motionless at his window, staring out into the white that surrounded the palace. He couldn’t see anything of interest, but the feeling that had awoken him from his dream clawed at him nonetheless, growing stronger with every passing moment.

He reached out a pale hand and laid it on the window’s glass, the heat of his skin warming the surface and allowing a misty film to condense around his fingers. The Elvenking breathed out slowly, his breath ghosting over the frigid glass. He could not decipher what it was, but something had changed out there in the white world. Something had shifted. It was almost imperceptible, but he knew it was there. He hadn’t felt such a shift in his life since Legolas had sailed west nearly two hundred years ago.

The Elvenking slipped his hand from the window, his steely blue eye staring only a few moments longer to the south before he whipped around, smothering the fledging sense of change he felt. Nothing changed for him. Nothing could ever change for him.

* * *

  **150 Years Later**

He was having the dream he always had. It was always exactly the same; it began with fire and ash and arrows and ended with armies and blood and battle. He’d never been in a proper battle before, he didn’t recognise the ruins that he was fighting amongst, yet it felt as real to him as breathing. He did not recognise the beings that surrounded him, yet they seemed to know him; they seemed to trust him.

As usual, he was swept up in the battle, fighting alongside men and dwarves and other elves, yet he did not feel himself. He did not feel his elven strength or reflexes as he fought. He felt slowed and heavy and… vulnerable. But amongst the fighting he found the eyes that gave him comfort. The blue eyes; always surrounded by swathes of fine, white-gold hair. He felt them looking deep into his own, tugging at his heart and giving him the strength to—

“Bard?” a tentative voice called, “Bardie….”

The sleeping elf rolled over and groaned, burying his head under his arm.

“Baaaaard?”

The elf buried his face even further away from the noise that was trying to awaken him. It couldn’t be time already, he felt so utterly exhausted.

“Bard!” This time the name came with a pillow being lobbed at his prone form. The elf sighed a huge, heaving breath before he sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His tangled brown hair stuck to the side of his face as he yawned and swiped at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you up?”

The elf rolled his eyes at the question and did not answer. He tried to gather his thoughts, smoothing down his unruly hair as he was pulled into reality from the dream he’d had.

“Bard?”

The elf dropped his hands from his long hair; almost growling, “I’ve told you not to call me that, Lai. You should be calling me Linnor, or Hîr vuin.” His voice was raspy from his sleep and he cleared it roughly.

“All the men call you Bard,” Lairion pouted.

“But you are an elfling, and you should address me correctly.”

“It is quite odd that you were named Linnor, since you have such an awful singing voice.”

Bard shut his eyes, trying to remember why he had agreed to mentor the young elf sitting at the foot of his bed, gazing at him with wide eyes. Lairion was young, barely twenty-five years old, and had lost his parents to a rogue attack of orcs when he was but a tiny elfling, barely able to speak. He’d been taken in by the small community of elves that still lived at Emyn Arnen when he was found wandering a meadow in the foothills of the Ephel Dúath. They had named him Lairion, the Sindarin for meadow, and had cleaned him up and cared for him. How he had survived, alone and without supplies, was never discovered, and Lairion never spoke of any memories that he may remember.

“Bard suits you better, Linnor is too delicate,” Lairion said, smiling widely at his mentor.

Bard sighed and opened his eyes, looking to the young elf. He couldn’t be angry with him, not when he was so boundlessly optimistic about everything. Lairion had had five previous mentors before the elder elves had thrust him into Bard’s care. The elfling was odd, his sunny personality and unending supply of energy unusual for an elf. Bard assumed that the elders had thought that, being an odd elf himself, he may be able to tame Lairion. He didn’t appreciate that type of thinking, and had only reluctantly agreed to take on his young ward. He was very young himself; only one hundred and fifty years old, and had not expected to be trying to raise a young elf so soon. It was hard work keeping Lairion out of trouble, yet the elfling had grown on him, reminding him of himself at that age.

Bard had always been an odd elf: an outsider since before he could remember. His mother and father hadn’t seemed to mind; they’d always treated him wonderfully and had done their best to help him through his formative years. His parents were of Silvan origin, having followed Prince Legolas from Mirkwood to Ithilien at the end of the Third Age. Though both his parents had been fair and typical of their race, Bard had inherited more rugged looks. He had a slightly darker complexion, large hazel eyes and chocolate-brown hair; all rare features for one of his descent. This had set him apart from his peers from the start, and his ineptitude for the arts that elves held so dear caused the chasm to widen. By the time he had come of age, Bard had made very few elven friends, instead preferring the company of men. They were of similar temperaments, and his unmatched skills at archery made him welcome among the soldiers of Emyn Arnen.

The other elves in the community were wary of his rather rough, rugged nature. It was not usual for elves to be so inclined, and it worried the elder elves of Emyn Arnen. They were cautious of him, and it had caused him to be shunned by his peers. They didn’t understand his fondness for getting into scrapes or the fact that he could never keep his hair quite as neat as expected. As he’d grown, he had deliberately enhanced his very un-elflike characteristics, rebelling in his own small ways. He wore clothes unbefitting of elves and he was more interested in perfecting his skills with a longbow than the refined and delicate skill of singing. His name was a cruel joke. Linnor – meaning singer – had always haunted him. His parents had been too optimistic about his potential. Instead of perfecting the skill of playing the harp, he rode out with the men on the hunt and learned all he could of the human ways, feeling more at home amongst the rough-and-ready men that comprised the guard.

Though he was accepted by the men, he was never truly one of them, and had found himself inhabiting an odd divide between elf and man. He was not refined enough to make friends in his small elven community, nor was he human enough to be fully part of the world of men. As the years had passed, Bard had accepted his fate, growing to like being a lone wolf. He preferred his own company anyway. He’d never let the opinions of his kin stop him from living his life how he desired, his mother having instilled in him a pride for who he was. Though his peers were wary of him, they had afforded him respect when his talent for archery had saved more than one of their lives. Now though, they teased him by calling him the twisted common tongue translation of his name, and left him mostly to his own devices.

“The men call me Bard as a joke,” Bard said, rising from his humble bed, “They think it’s funny to translate my name into the common tongue.” The man who had taught him the longbow had given him the name decades ago, using it as a tool to incite him into improvement. Though Bard’s official stance was that he preferred Linnor, he couldn’t deny that Bard suited him better. He’d resisted it for a few years, but had very much given up the fight. He’d even come to like it. Not when it came to Lairion though; the young elfling needed to learn to address his elders properly.

Lairion rose with Bard, practically bouncing with excitement, “They’re only jealous because you’re the best archer they’ll ever see!”

Bard cracked a smile then, and he threw a worn robe around his shoulders. Though he preferred his own company, having a young elf look up to him in awe, as Lairion did, was not altogether a terrible experience. 

“I’ve packed already, and I’ve readied our horses,” the young elf said, his shoulder length auburn hair bouncing up and down with him.

Bard heaved a long-suffering sigh. They weren’t supposed to leave until mid-morning and it had only just gone sunrise. Instead of admonishing the young elfling, Bard nodded. “Clean yourself up then and wait for me at the stables so that I can check your work.”

Lairion nearly tripped over his own feet as he spun around, bolting out of Bard’s bedchamber to do as his mentor bid.

Though the prospect of embarking on the long journey north with the incessant chatter of his young ward made him fear for his sanity, Bard felt a juxtaposing excitement well up inside his breast. He’d been longing to go north for decades; he’d been yearning to see his ancestral home in the great forest of Greenwood ever since his mother had told him stories of the place. He’d been fully grown, but very young, when his mother and father had sailed west; yet he still yearned for her fanciful tales and the history from where he’d come.

When he had told one of his mother’s stories about the great Elvenking of Greenwood to Lairion to help him sleep, the young elfling had been enthralled. He’d been begging Bard for months to see the great forest and all of its wonders, though Bard had repeatedly told him of the kingdom’s decline. He’d told him how the once great Greenwood had descended into Mirkwood, and how the elves of the forest had retreated north from the encroaching darkness. He’d told him of the great battles and the wars that had followed and how most of their race had departed Middle Earth for the shores of the Undying Lands.

Though he had told him that Mirkwood was now not what the tales suggested; Lairion was still determined to see it. He saw why the elders had given him the young elfling to look after; he was the perfect foil for Bard’s lonesome seriousness. He brought out the playful side of the bow-elf, and it had been a long time since he’d felt such an easy friendship with one of his own kind. He’d come to be as a close to Bard as a son and, exasperating as he could sometimes be, Bard could not deny him his child-like wonder. He’d agreed to a journey north with some elves who were traveling there to visit their kin. Lairion had been overjoyed and had begun to count down the days until their journey.

Bard set about preparing himself for the day; washing himself and changing into his traveling robes. He tried valiantly to wrestle with his hair, the slightly wavy locks proving once again to be untameable. He settled for his usual style; a small braid holding back the front of his hair clasped with a tiny golden bead. The rest of his hair was left to fall about his shoulders. He threw his distinctive coat over his shoulders, rearranging the large fur collar so that it sat flush against his chest.

He turned, appraising at his own reflection in the looking glass that rested on the humble table in his small living area. He tilted his head, trying to smooth down the stray hairs that fluttered in the breeze swirling through the open door. Bard sighed and gave up, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder and exiting his humble abode. He lived in the fortress at Emyn Arnen, his chambers overlooking the archery range and the grounds. It suited him well; close enough to the range to practice his skills and far enough away from the majority of the elven community to ignore the majority of the odd looks he received at his choice of wardrobe and his unruly hair.

He descended through the deserted corridors and the winding staircases easily, heading for the stables. No doubt Lairion would be waiting for him, fidgeting with the horses he’d prepared. Bard smiled softly as he thought of the small elfling; though he annoyed and exasperated him, he couldn’t imagine how his life would be without him. He’d brought a new sense of meaning to Bard’s solitary life, and he would be forever grateful for that.

Lairion was indeed at the stables, fussing over how he was dressed. He pulled and tugged at his borrowed traveling robes until he saw Bard approach. He straightened up, standing proudly next to the packs that he had prepared for their journey north, and gave Bard his most winning smile. Bard returned the smile and began looking over the elfling’s work. Lairion had learned much during the months he’d spent with Bard, taking to the task of squiring for the bow-elf easily. He was an effective aide when his boundless energy could be properly directed.

Lairion had done a good job, and Bard patted him on the shoulder, nodding before he said, “Are you ready for an adventure?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank you for reading, it is much appreciated! Constructive criticism is always welcome <3 **
> 
> I also write Thrandolas, if you're in to that sort of thing. 
> 
> More of my art can be found here: [plotbunniesincolour tumblr](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/) or here: [plotbunniesincolour deviantart](http://plotbunniesincolour.deviantart.com/)


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